


Lost Without His Blogger

by mylittlecorneroftheuniverse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Sherlock, M/M, post series three
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-02-25
Packaged: 2018-03-05 08:22:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3112793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mylittlecorneroftheuniverse/pseuds/mylittlecorneroftheuniverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock doesn't manage to patch himself up, so John has to come and do it, as usual.<br/>Mutual pining resulting in fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

John starts awake at the sound of glass bursting.

‘Now he’s finally managed to blow himself up’, he mumbles groggily, but jogs down the stairs anyways, more worried than he would have let on.

‘'Thefuck’sat?’ he grumbles, eyeing the mess Sherlock made. There are shards of glass everywhere, and the sleeves of Sherlock’s shirt are dark with liquid.  
 

“What the _hell_ have you been doing!” He comes closer and takes a brief sniff.  
‘Is that... oh fuck, Sherlock, that’s acid - all over your hands!’

Sherlock himself looks slightly put off.  
‘I don’t understand… this wasn’t supposed to-‘, he mutters, apparently more concerned about the outcome of the experiment than the acid burning his hands.

John moves forward and around the table in a rush and turns the tap on. He grips Sherlock by the shoulders and pushes him towards the sink.  
‘Do the burns feel hot?’ Sherlock shakes his head silently.

_Not sulfuric acid, then. Good. They should be able to handle this._

‘Alright, I want you to keep your hands under the water for at least ten minutes. If the burns still hurt after that, I’m calling 999.’

Sherlock has become unusually compliant. He simply stands there, staring at the water running over his thin fingers.  
John looks at him with a mixture of annoyance and disbelief.

‘For goodness’ sake, you studied chemistry! How can you _not be able to do this yourself?’_  
Sherlock mumbles something about how he never needed to.

‘Oh, because your experiments never go wrong?’ John says sarcastically. ‘Yeah, I totally see that, basic lab safety, too _dull_ for the great Sherlock Holmes!’ Sherlock seems to shrink at John’s harsh words.

‘We need to get your shirt off’, John says and tries to calm himself.

Sherlock instantly moves to unbutton his cuffs, but his fingers are clumsy with pain.

After watching him struggle for a moment John pulls on a pair of gloves and reaches for Sherlock’s cuffs, now drenched in water, deftly unbuttoning them.

He tries very hard not to look at Sherlock’s hands, not to think about how they would feel wrapped in his own. 

Sherlock has finally pulled himself together enough to speak. ‘Sorry.’ 

He steels himself. ‘I’m sorry I woke you- I’m sorry I made such a mess- I didn’t meant for that to-‘

John turns to look at him, surprised. Sherlock seems vulnerable, almost childlike, standing there with lost, distracted eyes.

John's anger melts away and he feels warmth bloom in his chest.

He is quick to reassure. 

‘It’s fine. It's what I do, isn’t it? Patch you up.” He gives Sherlock a smile. ‘Come on, let’s get your shirt off’.

Sherlock struggles not to tense up as John’s cold fingers brush against his chest. He feels too hot, and knows it isn't wholly due to getting worked up over the experiment.

John can sense Sherlock tensing up. ‘You okay?’

‘Fine’, he manages and feels as if he's choking on his emotion. 

He inhales sharply as John pushes the last button open.

‘Think you can manage?’, John asks and Sherlock pushes the shirt off over his wet hands, wincing at the pain. 

John moves behind Sherlock to take his shirt, and tries very hard not to stare at Sherlock’s back.

He clears his throat unnecessarily. ‘You keep your hands under the water. I’ll be right back.’

Sherlock turns to see John move to put the ruined shirt away, careful to keep the wet parts inside as he folds it up.

John flees from the hot kitchen air into the bathroom. He gets rid of the gloves and the shirt and lets himself fall heavily on the toilet lid. The door klicks shut behind him. He's been getting hard already, it’s ridiculous. A few touches of Sherlock’s hot skin are apparently all is takes. He knows he can’t be gone for long.

He lets his eyes fall shut and tries to focus on his breathing.

It doesn’t help one bit to make him forget the way Sherlock looked at him: far more open than usual, trusting him unconditionally.

John is determined to get himself together in order to live up to that trust, he really is. He knows that his hopeless pining will do neither of them any good.

_“John, you should know I consider myself married to my work and while I’m flattered by your interest I’m really not looking for any kind of-“_

That had hurt. A lot, actually. But John has done the best he could to get rid of his feelings. For both their sakes. Not that it 's worked, obviously.

Every glance of Sherlock’s, every smile – the kind reserved just for John–, has threatened to tear down the walls which he has worked so hard to built. But John still tries, because Sherlock really does need him. Of that he is certain, at least. Hence tonight. _That bloody great idiot._

But just as Sherlock needs him, John needs Sherlock. And if friendship is what they will have, then so be it.

He gets up, splashes his face with icy water and returns to the kitchen.

Sherlock apparently hasn’t moved since John left.

John steps closer and sees that Sherlock's teeth are clattering. His fingernails have gone blue under the cold water.  
‘Oh Sherlock’, John says as he moves closer and turns off the tap.

‘Does it still hurt? And Sherlock, be honest-‘  
‘No, John, it’s fine.’ Sherlock has turned to look at John. Goosebumps have spread all over his bare chest and arms and John sees a shiver run through him. He immediately feels guilty for not coming back sooner.

‘I’m glad. I’ll dry them off, okay?’ 

Sherlock nods quiety, unable to tear his gaze away.

As John does so, Sherlock is overcome by the emotion welling up inside him. 

He actually feels his pulse quicken, and his treacherous heart seems to beat so violently he is sure John must have noticed by now. It takes all his strength not to wrap his hands around John's, to cling to the warmth he is radiating. 

But oh, how he wants to. How he wants John to cradle him is his arms, to warm him, to shelter him from the world, just as he always had, in every way but that one. 

There has always been that line in their relationship that just wasn't to be crossed. No physical contact just for the sake of it. John was fine with touching him accidentally, and he was fine with touching him for a purpose, John the doctor, patching him up countless times. But to give and to recieve pleasure, for no other reason other than the touch itself, never.

‘... alright, these don’t look too bad… I’ll put some salve on it and then some bandages…’ 

Sherlock snaps out of his musings. Before he can think of something to say, John is gone to get his medical kit. 

Sherlock is shivering again, half from the cold, half from the emotional strain of being so close to John, but not nearly close enough.

When John returns a minute later, Sherlock hardly manages to pull himself together.

And John does seem to notice that something is off, because he reaches out to squeeze Sherlock's shoulder. ‘I’m sure the burns will heal just fine.’

Sherlock eyes involuntarily fall shut at the touch. The edges are blurring. Has he already crossed the line?

John looks up at him. 'You really should just have gone to sleep instead of conducting that experiment', he says kindly. 'Now that I think of it, I don't think I've seen you asleep since Wednesday.’

Sherlock is glad for the excuse. He makes himself speak. ‘I don't think I have slept since then, actually.'

John smiles at him, half amused, half exasperated, and tells him to go and sit on the sofa.

Sherlock does so and after a moment John settles next to him.

John takes his hand carefully and dabs some salve on the lean fingers, which are raw with the burns.

Sherlock is unable to stop himself shuddering at the sudden intimacy: John holding his hand tenderly in his lap, as he himself is half-naked and drunk on affection and desire.

‘John?’ Sherlock turns to look at him. ‘Thank you.’ 

‘That’s all right’ 

John is irrationally pleased. Any friendly word from Sherlock is a very special thing- to be cherished and treasured and locked away.

Which is just what Sherlock does with any shard of information on John. He puts them all away in his mind palace, in the brightest room. 

It is there that he puts the smile John has just given him, the surprise at Sherlock’s openness so obvious in his face.

Yes, Sherlock does in fact know how much John appreciates it when he is becoming a bit more ‘human’.

But as much as he loves making John smile, he fears opening up.

It’s a dangerous thing, the expression of feelings. Sherlock doesn’t trust himself to only show the part John would appreciate, deem appropriate. There is so much he isn’t allowed to say.

John is perfectly oblivious to Sherlock’s internal struggle and keeps dabbing at his hands, rubbing in the salve.

His tenderness becomes nearly painful to Sherlock. He can't stop the sigh that leaves him. 

John looks up. 'What is it?'  
His voice is quiet, it sounds far too intimate in the dimly lit room in the middle of the night. Sherlock cannot bear it.

‘John, I…’ 

Sherlock halts, struggles to put it into words. That thing that is threatening to tear open his chest and to come spilling out. 

The look Sherlock is giving him knocks all the air out of John’s lungs. He can see it now, and that is the last little push he has needed.. 

It feels unreal, like watching a stranger.

He is slowly lifting his hand and letting it ghost over Sherlock’s cheek. 

Sherlock doesn’t pull away.

Instead, his eyes fall shut and he leans into the touch.

His racing mind goes quiet as his whole being is focused on John. Beautiful, perfect, honest John.

The touch does not serve a purpose, and it is too intimate to be merely for comfort, like the hand squeezing his shoulder earlier. The line is definitely crossed. And John's motive is suddenly clear as day to Sherlock, because he sees in John what he himself has been feeling. The overwhelming urge to reach out and be closer, always closer.

A soft ‘oh’ escapes Sherlock and then his mind finally gives in and allows him to feel, only to feel.

John runs his thumb over Sherlock’s impossible cheekbone; relief is spreading through him, seeping slowly into his bones. Happiness threatens to overcome him, but still he has to be certain.

He bends closer to Sherlock, whispers in his ear. 

‘What do you want?’

‘You-’ 

Sherlock’s voice is choked with desire and it’s everything John has ever been hoping for.

He moves toward John until they are mere inches apart.

‘It’s always been you, John.’

He just breaks.

‘Oh, Sherlock’ 

Sherlock stares at him in absolute wonder and cautiously reaches out to trace John’s lips.

At the tender touch all of John's feelings finally come bursting out. 

He collapses onto Sherlock, clinging to him like a drowning man.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> their miscommunication problem is cleared up once and for all and everyone is happy

They stay like that for what seems like forever- neither of them wants to let go.

After a while, John dares to lean back from where he is holding on to Sherlock to look at him.

‘Okay?’ 

Sherlock smiles at John’s concern. Always the caring lark. 

‘Perfect’, he whispers, and in his mind he half means John himself, this utterly beautiful man. Sherlock could never not love him. 

John smiles, happiness radiating from him.

He moves to tuck a strand of Sherlock’s untameable curls away and Sherlock just melts at the gesture. As does John, by the way.  
Sherlock’s hair has always been particularily fascinating to him. He used to wonder how it would feel if he ran his hand through it absent-mindedly, maybe reading with Sherlock close.

Sherlock himself feels slightly giddy, but at the same time completely safe.

He feels that only now that the last wall between them has been torn down John can reach out to him completely. That everything John’s presence does to him is magically amplified. Sherlock feels engulfed by it, swallowed by John’s gaze as he doesn’t hold anything back.

Realising just how much he loves having that unfiltered beam of love directed at him makes Sherlock drop the last of his defences. Now that the last dam is broken, Sherlock cannot possibly hold back. Now that all he wants seems to be right there before him.

‘Please, John. Come here. Just…’

Sherlock reaches out and pulls John down to the sofa with him, moving to clutch at his jumper – he needs to be closer, always closer. He needs to experience that newfound connection in all the ways possible. 

Somehow, John understands and cradles Sherlock to his chest, holds him tight.

Sherlock sighs with relief. It feels like everything is suddenly righted. Like he has been living in a mist that has now cleared.  
John’s heartbeat beneath his cheek feels like the most beautiful thing in the world.

Then John is dropping little kisses to his hairline, moving his thumb over Sherlock’s neck, and his mind goes blissfully blank.

All he can do is feel, feel, feel.

It’s when John whispers a quiet ‘I love you’ into his hair that Sherlock’s feelings come spilling out: he realises he is crying silently into John’s chest. And it’s fine, somehow.

It doesn’t hurt like it should, instead it feels like a relief.

‘Hush, it’s all good, Sherlock, I promise’, John murmurs to him and Sherlock holds on to him even closer.

After a while, John feels Sherlock's breathing even out, and he is more than happy to have Sherlock is his arms, his to hold and to keep and to cherish.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed it! Kudos and comments would mean the world to me xxx  
> please call me out on any mistakes you might spot, plotwise or grammar/spelling! :)


End file.
